Atem kept his head low, carefully watching his footfalls on the steep, rocky slope. Every once in a while, he would flick his eyes up to see his father's cloak billowing behind as he led the way up the winding path toward the top of the Thebes Necropolis. The image conjured within Atem a memory of following this very same path nearly ten years earlier, after his mother had been laid to rest. Back then, it had been his brother's back that Atem watched as he climbed, and the path had seemed somehow softer — less jagged and worn. Now, he struggled to even maintain his balance among the shifting sand and stone.

When they finally reached the summit, instead of looking out over the Nile and the city below, Atem found himself turning back, squinting against the evening light into the shadow-strewn Valley of the Kings. At the bottom, the line of his brother's mourners had just begun to disperse, kicking up clouds of dust as they made their way back down the path toward the city.

"Come, Atem." His father's voice finally summoned his eyes eastward. "Sit with me."

With a deep breath, Atem climbed up the last embankment, revealing to him the city of Thebes. Even though this was only a small part of the Egyptian kingdom, it somehow seemed larger than ever — stretching out as far as the eye could see, still teeming with life and spirit even as the daylight hours dwindled.

Atem looked away and moved toward where his father sat on a large flat stone nearby. The Pharaoh was as still as a statue, moving only his eyes as he surveyed his dominion. Atem lowered himself quietly to the edge of the stone, careful not to disturb his father's musings.

"This will be yours someday."

The words alone were almost enough to send Atem's blood running cold. It had only been two weeks since Tefnak and Meriti's passing, and while the court had been whispering incessantly about the new line of succession, Atem had somehow managed to prevent such thoughts from infecting his mind. Now, with his father's utterance, there was no denying it. One day, Atem would become Pharaoh.

"Are you ready to accept that responsibility?"

Atem looked up to see his father staring hard at him. At first, Atem had intended to give his father the answer he was looking for — that he was prepared to ascend the throne, to become a god among men. But looking into his father's eyes, he knew he could not lie. Slowly, Atem shook his head.

The Pharaoh's face softened with a smile. "I have always appreciated your honesty, Atem," he said. "But we must work at once to change that. I do not know how many years I have left, and I still have many lessons to teach you."

Atem found himself growing almost indignant at his father's words. After having Tefnak and Meriti ripped mercilessly from the world of the living, it felt like an insult to even think that the gods might try to take away his father as well.

"Tell me, my son," Aknamkanon said softly. "What is it you fear most about becoming Pharaoh?"

Atem straightened his brow and turned to look out over the river below, its placid surface streaked with orange in the sunsetting light. "So many people. So many lives to watch over." He swallowed hard. "How do you know whether or not you're making the right decisions for them?"

His father made a low sound. "I won't lie to you," he said, "sometimes you won't know. Sometimes, you may find yourself faced with a choice that seems dire no matter the outcome. But you must not let yourself be paralyzed by fear of the unknown. It is infinitely more dangerous to make no decision at all."

His father's candor somehow both comforted and disturbed him. For years, Atem had been following directions and bowing to traditions with little resistance: wear this garment, study these scrolls, marry this woman. It seemed strange that at any moment, he might be expected to be the one giving orders.

"But above all, my son," his father went on, "you must surround yourself with trustworthy advisors. With wise confidants at your side, you will never have to make a difficult choice alone. Those you name as your governors can be all the difference between a prosperous reign and a living nightmare."

Atem looked up and gave a shallow nod of understanding. His father smiled and turned his gaze away.

"Speaking of confidants," he said, "how have things been between you and your wife?"

Atem felt his stomach tighten with unease. In truth, things with Satiah hadn't changed much since their wedding night. They were still sleeping separately, and, if it was even possible, it seemed they were exchanging fewer words than ever. "We haven't spoken much since … everything happened."

Aknamkanon nodded, looking back. "That is to be expected. She has suffered a loss as well."

Atem was surprised by this. It seemed odd to hold up her father's dismissal from the palace as equivalent to the deaths of two family members. But his father remained quiet for a long time, gazing down at Atem as if willing him to remember everything that had happened to her in the last month — the death of her brother, the humiliation suffered by her father, the stripping of their ka … the quiet, shivering tears she had shed on their wedding night. And how could he have forgotten so quickly? That Satiah had been there, standing outside the infirmary where Meriti drew his last breath? Atem felt guilt settle thickly on his shoulders, knowing she had likely witnessed the very moment the child had crossed over into the afterlife.

"You should speak with her," his father urged. "Silence only causes pain to fester."

Atem nodded again, this time more for himself than his father. He'd convinced himself that giving Satiah space was a good thing — that she might have even wanted to be at arm's length after everything that had happened. But his father's words, as usual, put things in a different perspective.

"Atem, there is one more thing I wanted to speak with you about."

Atem turned, his eyes falling to his father's chest, where he cradled the golden pyramid around his neck.

"I'm sure this comes as no surprise, but I have spoken with the Guardians, and it has been agreed that you will inherit the Millennium Ring."

Atem felt cold needles prickle along his skin.

"You should spend some time preparing," his father went on. "The Ceremony will take place in one week."

For the third time in as many days, Satiah found herself awoken by noonday sun. She scrunched her knees up and hugged tight to herself to make sure she wasn't still dreaming. Her sleep patterns had been thrown into complete disarray since the death of the crown prince and his son, causing her to toss and turn during the night, only to be plagued with fatigue in the waking hours. She knew she was beginning to lose control of this malaise, a fact which surely hadn't escaped the notice of those around her either.

Slowly, Satiah rolled over, unsurprised to find her eyes met with an empty bedchamber. Recently, she only saw her husband at the few meals she could bring herself to attend. Sometimes they would turn in together for the night, sharing stolen glances before slipping into their separate sleeping arrangements. Other times, Atem might retreat to the garden instead, returning to their bedchamber hours later. Satiah would often pretend to be asleep, listening to his soft footfalls and deep sighs as he settled in for the night. But always, he was gone before she awoke.

The door suddenly rattled open, and Satiah forced herself to sit up in bed as her handmaiden entered the room. These days, it seemed Tuya only ever wore a worried expression, and today was no different. She swept into the room carrying a tray of breakfast food and drink, setting it lightly on the end of the bed before stepping back with her hands on her hips.

"I thought you might be hungry," she said in a motherly tone.

Satiah forced a smile and reached out to take up the cup of tea sitting on the tray. "Thank you."

Tuya cocked her head to the side and tried to replace the look of worry with one of sympathy, but it didn't work. "Before you ask … there were no messages this morning."

Satiah concealed her disappointment with a sip of hot tea, but the liquid burned her tongue, causing her to grimace. It had been well over two weeks since her father was sent away from the palace, and she hadn't received a single letter or message in that whole time. She'd heard through the gossip at court that, despite the protests of one specific High Priest, her father had still been allowed to take up his new post at the Karnak archives. But so far, Satiah had been unable to muster the will to visit him there.

Tuya lowered herself to the edge of the bed. "Perhaps you should go to Karnak yourself," she urged, as if reading Satiah's mind. "It might do your heart some good to be amongst the gods."

Satiah stared into her tea, watching the steam rise into the air like curling white fingers. She turned to Tuya and flashed a stiff smile. "Thank you for the provisions," she said, raising the cup. "You can go now. I'll ready myself for the day."

The worry returned to Tuya's face, but she simply patted Satiah's knee and left the room in silence. When she was alone again, Satiah placed the cup of tea back on the tray and forced herself to rise as well, moving across the room to her vanity. She sat before it and took up a comb, running it lazily through her tangled hair.

As she did so, her thoughts drifted briefly to her wedding gift — the elaborate headdress and its accompanying ivory comb, crafted in Sekhmet's image. Beautiful as they were, Satiah couldn't even remember what had become of the items in the days since the wedding. She looked across the room briefly to the pile of gifts leaning against the wall, but she could not see the small box among them. With an apathetic sigh, Satiah returned to running her old comb through her tresses.

A moment later, the door creaked again, and Satiah turned. "Tuya—" She froze when her eyes fell not upon her handmaiden, but her husband. "Oh — I'm sorry."

Atem smiled and shook his head. For a long time, he stood just inside the door, simply gazing at her. His pensive stare conjured strange feelings within her — a stirring sensation, as if he'd somehow entered her mind and was trying to keep her lonely thoughts company.

She wrenched her eyes away, catching sight of the strewn sheets and breakfast tray still lying on the bed. Embarrassed, she apologized again, standing to tidy her mess. She picked up the tray and placed it on the table across from the bed. When she looked up, Atem was moving further into the room; she avoided his eyes as he drew closer, until he was in almost the exact position and proximity as he'd been on their wedding night.

Satiah drew in a deep breath and pulled a hand into her waist, pressing down to quiet her fluttering stomach. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his own arm lift with intent, and her flutters grew to an unfettered shiver as he took her hand loosely in his. She blinked and finally let her gaze drift back up, only to see his attention was now downturned to where he was gently cradling her fingers in his palm. His brow was slowly creasing, his eyes flicking back and forth as if he was searching for words. Satiah made no movement at all, even as he gripped tighter and ran his thumb across the top of her hand.

"My prince—"

Satiah recoiled her hand and looked up to see Mahad standing in the open doorway. A blush came rushing to his cheeks as he realized the moment he'd just walked in on.

"Forgive me, your highnesses," he said, bowing slightly. "Prince Atem, the Conclave is ready for you in the training complex."

Satiah cast her husband a sidelong glance, surprised to see him looking much more composed than she felt. Atem gave his friend a nod of acknowledgement, after which Mahad quickly took his leave. Once alone, Atem looked down at Satiah's hands, which were clenched up into her middle again. With a tortured smile, he lowered his head and swept toward the door. Even as he disappeared into the hall beyond, Satiah could still feel her hand glowing hotly from his touch.

...

Satiah did not see her husband again until dinner, which she made a point to attend this time. In her solitude, the sparks of curiosity she felt about their earlier encounter had since been stoked into a crackling fire. She'd spent the day chasing her thoughts in circles, wondering what had driven him to express such unprompted tenderness. But by the time she'd made her way down to the great hall, she found it unexpectedly filled with excited chatter.

As she entered, she saw Atem sitting at one end of the table, flanked by Mahad and half a dozen other lesser priests and priestesses of the Royal Conclave. Each had a goblet in their hand, and between them on the table sat a huge carafe of wine. Their faces betrayed clear signs of intoxication, flaring red on their cheeks and setting a glaze over their eyes. Stranger still, however, was the smile she saw tugging at the prince's lips as he ran his fingers along a glint of gold hanging around his neck — the Millennium Ring.

Satiah concealed herself behind a column and watched the situation unfold. One of the priests sitting near Atem raised a goblet. "Let us celebrate our fallen brother and commander, who met his end fighting bravely on the battlefield. May we all hope for such honorable deaths!" The other spellcasters echoed the sentiment with enthusiasm, raising their glasses to toast and drink.

"And let us lend our strength to the new crown prince, as he prepares to inherit the Millennium Ring!" cried another priest. All banged their fists on the table while they drank again from their cups.

Satiah felt the spark in her heart slowly dwindling as the priests continued to celebrate the impending rise of their new leader. She knew she shouldn't be surprised by the news — it had always been her husband's birthright to one day become Guardian of a Millennium Item, even before the death of his brother. But deep down, she still harbored an undeniable fear of the Items — especially when she considered the lengths to which Bakura was willing to go to get his hands on one. Even with the future clouded as it was, there was one thing about which Satiah was absolutely certain: that there was no shortage of men like Bakura, waiting in the wings for their chance to seize the mystifying power of the Millennium Items.

Satiah left the great hall almost as quickly as she'd entered it, with the sounds of celebration still echoing behind her. Ignoring pangs of hunger, she made her way back to her room and readied herself for bed. But predictably, even after she slipped into her sleeping gown and settled beneath the sheets, sleep refused to come to her. She was surprised to find her thoughts were not tortured by death and sorrow, as they usually were, but rather gentle touches and calm smiles. The dissonance of these images made her feel uneasy.

Some time passed — perhaps moments, perhaps hours — during which she flickered between waking and sleeping. It was during a particularly fitful dream that she found herself awoken fully by the sound of the door opening and closing. Satiah restrained herself from looking over her shoulder, instead listening for soft, familiar footsteps. What came instead was a clumsy clattering of feet across the tiles, accompanied by heavy, heedless breaths. The prince was well and drunk, she knew — and no surprise with the way his friends were pouring his wine.

Following another moment of stumbling feet came the sound of clothes being removed and tossed carelessly on the floor. He stood still for a moment, and in the quiet, Satiah could hear the muted knell of the Ring still swinging around his neck. She curled into herself and pulled the covers tighter around her, closing her eyes again.

The footsteps returned, this time more calm and purposeful — and now, drawing nearer to her. When the weight on the feathered mattress shifted, her eyes finally flew open. She pushed herself up onto her forearm and looked over her shoulder to see Atem reclining on the bed beside her, stretching one hand in her direction.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

He stopped and blinked his glazed eyes, looking almost as if he'd been woken from a dream himself. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I just — I wanted… I wanted to…"

Satiah turned further, looking at him expectantly. But he just heaved a heavy sigh and dropped his arm to the bed between them. Her eyes were drawn downward as the Ring chimed again.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, making a move to leave.

"No." Frustrated, Satiah sat up fully and threw the sheets off her, exiting the bed from the opposite side. "Sleep," she ordered, pushing a pillow in his direction, "and dream of a woman who will give you what you want."

He looked hurt, but Satiah turned quickly away and stalked across the room toward the bench below the window. Exhaling sharply, she laid back on it and pulled the sheet over herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Atem drop his head heavily to his own pillow. It was only a few moments more before his ragged breaths turned deep and wistful with sleep, but she continued to watch him for a long time afterward, her heart still thumping loudly in her ears. She struggled to find meaning amongst all her thrashing emotions, feeling somehow both enraptured and perplexed by the prince's sudden change in demeanor. Was there some deeper intent behind his actions, or had the wine simply made him a fool?

As the moon crawled invariably across the sky, Satiah never did find answers to these questions, nor did sleep return to her. Instead, a haze of delirium settled over her as morning fast approached. Strange, somatic sensations took her, and to her ears came a muted scraping sound — like metal on stone. Then, a flash filled her vision — coming from the second of two windows further down the wall. She blinked, and what she saw next made her think she was dreaming — Bakura climbed up and perched himself on the window frame, an iron knife clenched between his teeth.

Satiah lay frozen on the bench, watching behind the billowing curtains as he took the knife from his mouth and stepped down to the floor, creeping quietly toward the table at the center of the room. Somehow, he hadn't noticed her presence yet, his gaze occupied instead searching the surface of the table for something — the Ring, Satiah knew. Carefully, he lifted the corner of a papyrus with the edge of his blade to look underneath, then mouthed a curse and set it back down. Soon after, his eyes were drawn to the bed a few paces away, upon which Atem was still sleeping peacefully.

With the thief's gaze turned away at last, Satiah allowed herself a slow, deep, steady breath. She must be dreaming, she thought. How else could a dead man be walking? But as she watched the handle of the dagger spinning in his palm, she remembered — even after a week of searching, Bakura's body had never been found.

Noiselessly, she swung her feet down to touch the ground, then let her upper body follow, careful to conceal the movement of her shadow with the swelling of the curtains. Still crouched, she slipped out of the moonlight and into the strip of darkness between the windows, watching with eyes wide as Bakura made for Atem's bed. She followed as close as she dared, considering her next move. It would only be a matter of time before he would see the Ring around Atem's neck, and with the blade Bakura was brandishing, he would surely make short work of the prince. She could scream for the guards, but by the time they arrived, Bakura could easily close the distance and drive the blade into her heart instead. As she passed the table, she, too, scoured it for anything she could use as a weapon — but only loose papyri and discarded games littered the surface.

When she looked back at Bakura, she stopped. The thief had reached the side of the bed now; he peered down at the sleeping prince with a twisted smile on his face. He clicked his tongue, then lifted his blade and twirled it in both hands. As the iron caught the moonlight, a dark thought struck Satiah like a lightning bolt. She could simply turn — turn and run. She could let the dagger sink into her husband's flesh — let the ka leave his body, and let his killer escape with the cursed Ring. If the prince died, she would be free — free of these people who had stolen her spirit and made her slave to their will, free of this arrangement that had stripped her of her right to marry for love.

But a life would be gone. Blood would be spilled. And that blood would be on her hands.

As Bakura gripped the handle of the dagger and brought his arm back in preparation to strike, Satiah's body moved on its own. She surged forward and reached — desperate, repentant — closing her fists and feeling the momentum of fate stop short, held taut by the balance of her body and all its defiant sinew. Below the blade, now clasped in her trembling, blood-soaked hands, a red-flecked face stared up at her, its two violet eyes as round and eclipsed as the moon. Then, a new pair of eyes turned on her — dark eyes, darker than the blood that was now dripping from her fingers to stain the white sheets.

"Stupid woman!" Bakura hissed. He shrugged his shoulders forward to break her grip, then whipped his elbow back into her jaw, sending her stumbling into the table behind. She turned to soften the impact, her arms sending papyri flying into the moonlit air. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Bakura moving in and raising his blade. Desperately, Satiah closed her hand around the closest hard thing she could find and spun, whipping her arm out at her attacker.

To her surprise, he cried out, then dropped the blade and brought his hands to cradle the side of his face. Between his fingers came a trickle of blood, and Satiah looked down to see clenched in her own bloody fist was the comb Atem had given her on their wedding night. Bakura pulled his hand away, revealing two sharp gashes beneath his right eye — Sekhmet's fangs would leave him scarred forever.

"You'll regret that," Bakura spat. Satiah, still pinned against the table, flinched as Bakura lurched forward and caught her throat in one hand, squeezing hard on her windpipe. She dropped the comb and grabbed at his wrist, but even upon sinking her nails deep into his flesh, he refused to let go. Face twisted with rage, he lifted her up off the table, sending darkness closing in around her eyes. Finally, after several gulping breaths, Bakura's hand left her throat. She braced herself at the sight of stone rushing up beneath her; the impact sent what little air she had left rushing out of her lungs.

Gasping, Satiah blinked the stars from her eyes and struggled to sit up, just in time to see Atem surging out of his bed, reaching wisely for the discarded dagger on the ground. But Bakura was too quick — he stomped down on Atem's outstretched hand, causing the prince's body to crumple. With his victim trapped beneath his heel, Bakura brought his arm across his body and struck Atem with a sharp backhand that sent him tumbling against his bed frame, dazed.

Satiah felt like she was sucking air through a reed as she tried desperately to fill her lungs enough to scream for the guards. Instead, she was forced to watch as Bakura snapped up the knife and sauntered over to his stunned prey. He knelt, almost reverently, before the prince — then grinned and drove the dagger to the hilt into Atem's abdomen.

"NO!" Air finally returned to Satiah's lungs, and she turned fearfully away from the sight, screaming: "Help! Guards! Please—!"

But it was too late. When she turned back, Bakura was already standing, the Millennium Ring clutched greedily in his hands. He turned to look at where she lay, and his grin grew even wider as he touched the Ring to his forehead in thanks before ambling lazily toward the window from which he came.

Without another thought, Satiah stood and raced to where her husband lay writhing, his hand clutched around the hilt of the dagger. Clearly in shock, he was pulling on it. Not a single sound passed his clenched teeth as the blade unsheathed itself from his flesh, hot blood rushing in to fill the void. Atem dropped the dagger to his side, and instinctively, Satiah pressed her palms onto the wound in a desperate attempt to slow the bleeding. She pulled his own limp hands up to assist in the effort, but it was no use — blood rushed forth from his flesh like a fresh spring, decorating the floor with rivers of red.

Panicked, Satiah looked up to see Bakura's shadow cut across Atem's horror-struck eyes. The thief laughed as he hopped up onto the windowsill, steadying himself with a hand on either side of it in preparation to make his escape. Satiah gritted her teeth hard, then took up the discarded blade and stood — whipping her arm back and loosing the dagger toward the fleeing thief.

The dagger sang a single sharp note as it sailed through the night air, the tune cut short when the blade sank deep into the limestone wall beside the window. A jangle of gold followed, and Bakura stopped, his wild-eyed gaze turning to see the knifeblade lodged between the bottom arch of the Ring and its triangular centerpiece. Bakura pulled on it, but the crossguard of the dagger had pinned the Ring squarely against the wall, all the way to the hilt. With pure rage in his eyes, he turned back to Satiah and continued pulling on the blade, to no avail, until finally the sound of footsteps and shifting armor filled the hallway beyond. Cursing, Bakura released his treasure, just as the doors to the bedchamber burst open. Silently, the thief opened his arms to the night sky and sailed down into the dark below.